


Blood Ties

by Ephemeral16



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Bilbo Baggins, F/M, M/M, Marriage Contracts, Multi, Political Alliances, Possessive Behavior, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 14:32:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17388137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ephemeral16/pseuds/Ephemeral16
Summary: Hobbits have been wiped from existence- all except one.At the cost of his mother's life, Bilbo has been spared.Now, he must leave the only home he has ever known in an effort to strengthen the ties between Erebor and the Iron Hills. As Dáin II Ironfoot's adopted son, and only kin, Bilbo must enter a political marriage with Thorin, son of Thráin II, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain.But, blood is not always thicker than the thrall of power, and not all history is written with pure intent.





	Blood Ties

**Author's Note:**

> Edited 1/12/2019. This chapter was salvaged by the lovely Anosrepasi. She got through my terrible grammar, awful spelling and unnecessary rants like a warrior.
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy finding all the little Easter eggs from the films and books!
> 
>  
> 
> Translations found here, here, and  here. You can find the translations specific to this chapter at the end of the chapter.
> 
> There are similar to the daggers Bilbo uses.
> 
> This is the song I used for this chapter. I highly recommend listening while you read.

“Roads go ever ever on,  
Over rock and under tree,  
By caves where never sun has shone,  
By streams that never find the sea;  
Over snow by winter sown,  
And through the merry flowers of June,  
Over grass and over stone,  
And under mountains of the moon.

Roads go ever ever on  
Under cloud and under star,  
Yet feet that wandering have gone  
Turn at last to home afar.  
Eyes that fire and sword have seen  
And horror in the halls of stone  
Look at last on meadows green  
And trees and hills they long have known.”

-J.R.R. Tolkien (The Hobbit)-  
  


.

  


“Focus,” Dáin demanded, pushing further into Bilbo’s space.

Bilbo could feel Dáin’s hot breath fanning out across his cheek, slow and steady. He showed no outward sign of fatigue as he chided Bilbo, merely adjusted the grip on his sword while he edged back. Bilbo could scarcely hear over the sound of his own heavy panting. He tried to gather himself in the space he’d been allowed. The hilts of his daggers shifted in his grasp, slick with sweat to match the thin layer covering his skin.

The trembling in his hands grew worse. His exhaustion was becoming harder to control and harder to hide, a vulnerability bared in plain sight of his opponent. One he knew Dáin could take full advantage of.

Bilbo raised his blades again, locking them together high above his head, just in time to block the swift downward strike that rushed upon him. Its force nearly brought him to his knees, solid and deft as it was, but Bilbo adjusted his stance quickly, spreading his feet further apart to bear the attack. His arms and legs screamed in protest, but Bilbo held his ground. 

Swallowing under the immense strain, Bilbo twisted out from beneath Dáin’s thick, heavy blade. The edges of sword and dagger glided across each other- a shrill sound of clashing steel that vibrated deep in Bilbo’s bones. His muscles sang in relief at his escape as the weight of his opponent’s power and dense weaponry vanished.

“It must be nearing nightfall,” Bilbo sighed out between long drags of air.

It was the only indication of defeat that Bilbo was willing to risk- just a subtle implication of their particularly drawn out training session. He’d been woken before first light to a thundering rap on his door and the familiar sound of Dáin Ironfoot’s voice floating through the gaps between wood and stone. Which, in itself, was not very unusual, but the extent of their arduous training today certainly was.

“Indeed.”

Dáin’s short, uncaring response had Bilbo huffing in barely concealed irritation. He considered retaliating, unleashing an attack of his own, but the soreness in his limbs protested at the mere thought. Instead, Bilbo kept his footing light, readjusting to block each of Dáin’s strikes in a useless attempt to conserve some of his energy.

Bilbo looked over the dwarf, searching for any sign of vulnerability, even the smallest lapse in concentration or strength. It seemed a hopeless effort against the layers of hard armor and Dáin’s ever-sturdy stance. Bilbo could scarcely find any flaws on a good day, with a clear mind and sharp set of eyes. The task was significantly more difficult, impossible even, with the haze of fatigue clouding over him. For a moment, he considered accepting the loss- throwing down his daggers and announcing his withdrawal. But, defeat was not something Bilbo had been taught to receive lightly, or at all, for that matter.

Bilbo had hesitated for too long. Dáin drove towards him again with an impatient growl, bending low to strike out at Bilbo’s feet. It was a wise move; with Bilbo’s short blades and heavy dependency on footwork, it seemed a reliable maneuver. But, the crouched position called for both the element of speed and surprise. Dáin only had surprise on his side, and not quite enough of it to successfully swipe Bilbo’s feet out from under him.

Bilbo followed the movements easily, waiting until Dáin shifted closer as he spun into the attack. Bilbo stilled for three counts before he jumped. And then there was only air beneath his feet and the brief swipe of Dáin’s sword as it missed its mark. As soon as his feet touched back on the ground, Bilbo lifted both daggers, carefully resting the point of one to the back of Dáin’s neck and the other just below his bearded jaw.

Bilbo’s chest was heaving, heart beating wildly with the sudden rush of strength.

“Is something wrong, Lord Dáin?” Bilbo asked uneasily, keeping his hands locked in place, but careful not to let the blades break skin. Up close, Bilbo could see the stiffness of Dáin’s form- rigid and straight where he was usually slack with confidence. His lips were pressed tightly together, thinning out in response to Bilbo’s concern.

When Dáin made no effort to speak, Bilbo chanced a bit of force into his grip, pressing one dagger’s sharp edge to the sensitive flesh of Dáin’s jugular.

“Mind your manners.” Dáin snapped, keeping his voice level despite his disapproving scowl.

“My apologies, Lord Dáin.”

Bilbo dipped his head in apology, sliding back to a more respectable distance. Tired as he was, Bilbo knew better than to fan the flame of his master’s fury; rare as Dáin’s temper was. .

The added space gave Dáin room enough to stand, his movements fluid and effortless, completely unaffected by the bulk of his body, made worse by his heavy armor. There was something so unusual in the way Dáin moved about, distinct and unlike the rest of his kind. Dwarves, stout and able-bodied, took to heavy swings and rough, jerky motions that matched their strength and size, though Dáin seemed in favor of a quick, light foot.

Bilbo liked to think it was the influence of their sparring matches; Dáin’s way of countering the unfamiliar fighting style that Bilbo found most comfortable. So much of Bilbo, of his habits, skill and even of himself, were influenced greatly by his guardian. From the hard leather boots (made custom to fit his large feet), loose-fitted tunics with beautifully stitched designs, and an ever-present hunger for both food and improvement of skill on the battlefield. Dáin was the closest to kin Bilbo had ever known, and, as such, he had inherited dwarven culture and customs with relative ease and equal willingness.

Though he dare not say so, Bilbo’s heart was warmed by the knowledge that their closeness may not have left Dáin unaffected, either.

So caught up in his own thoughts, Bilbo barely noticed the faint sound of heavy breathing and the echoing thumps of leather and iron across stone. His ears twitched, body shifting toward slightly towards the doors behind him. Dáin, familiar with Bilbo’s keen sense of hearing, stood and looked past him to the doors just as they creaked open, banging carelessly against the walls on either side.

From the corner of his eye, Bilbo could make out the hunched over form of Dáin’s scribe, Kinod, red-faced and shining with a thin layer of sweat.

Curiosity crawled beneath his skin, but Bilbo could do nothing more than bite his tongue and turn his head to quell the unwelcome questions catching in his throat. He was a curious being by nature, but the secretiveness of dwarves had only ever brought him frustration and punishment everytime he pried.

“Shall we stop here for the day?” Bilbo suggested, trying- and failing- to hide the bit of hope that leaked into his voice.

Dáin did not answer immediately, sheathing his sword with a grunt and turning toward Kinod. If the young dwarf’s flustered appearance took Dáin by surprise, he did not show it, sparing only a moment to consider Kinod’s sudden arrival before beckoning him forward.

Dáin nodded to Bilbo. “Yes. Go to your rooms.”

Bilbo passed one last questioning gaze over his master, noting the way Dáin was focused so intently on Kinod, rapt attention humming between them. The tension of their coming conversation was palpable, silenced only by Bilbo’s unwelcome presence.

“Be sure to sharpen your nad ithrun,” Dáin reminded Bilbo, without so much as a glance in his direction.

“Yes, my Lord,” he assured him.

Bilbo offered a quick bow of his head as he slipped from the training room. He dragged the doors close behind with a heavy thud, effectively cloaking him in the silence of the halls. With a long sigh, Bilbo made his way through the maze of long tunnels and bridges.

The tunnels were nearly empty, with the exception of few dwarrows; as sour-faced and wary of Bilbo’s presence as when he first learned to understand his own undesirability. He kept his head down and his pace swift, nodding respectively despite their obvious disapproval. Familiar as it was, their rejection was simply an unavoidable aspect of Bilbo’s existence now. The loneliness and insecurity he’d once felt as a small child had quickly been outgrown.

Though, there were few that Bilbo could call friend, despite the lack of affection offered in the Iron Hills. He did not complain, nor pity himself for lacking; he was grateful for what he had and would ask no more.

Bilbo’s thoughts drifted to that of a warm fire and a cozy bed, putting his mind at ease and his pace a little quicker. He doubted he’d seen the last of Dáin for the night and he wanted to dedicate any time he had for himself to resting and, of he could keep his eyes open, a bit of light reading.

Yet, there was an unnerving feeling settling heavily in the pit of his stomach, one that first arose as Bilbo woke early that morning, that he couldn’t rid himself of.

Bilbo reached his room with a relieved sigh, discarding his boots, weapons and outer layers neatly by the door. He used a rag and a small pail of water in the corner of his room to wipe the worst of his grime away from his face, neck and arms. Feeling significantly cleaner, and more at ease in the safety of his room, Bilbo grabbed a small stack of scrolls and books, depositing them on the floor by the fire.

He was normally more than happy to lose himself in a good book, or pore over new maps and scrolls that were brought into the Iron Hills’ library. They were his only connection to the rest of the world, to all of Middle Earth outside of Dáin’s dominion. He struggled to focus as his mind stubbornly drifted back to Kinod’s sudden arrival in the training room.

Finding it impossible to concentrate on any of his texts, Bilbo collected his daggers and the small sharpening stone by the fire. The sound of steel scraping across stone was comforting, lulling almost, as were the practiced motions of his hands. He worked slowly, forcing himself to be patient, as he had so many times before.

When his blades were sharpened and polished to their very best, Bilbo was finally calm enough to thumb through a book on herbs and ancient healing techniques.

It was well past nightfall when Dáin finally came to him, Bilbo could tell from the upset groaning of his empty stomach. He’d gone the whole day without eating, but, somehow, it seemed such an insignificant thing. When the knock sounded at his door, Bilbo could feel his skin turning to goose flesh. He rose slowly, a greeting on the tip of his tongue, as Dáin entered on his own accord, wearing his usual, unreadable expression.

“What is it?” Bilbo asked hastily, knotting his fingers together to quell their shaking.

“Calm yourself,” Dáin replied gruffly, clasping Bilbo’s slight shoulder under his much larger hands. “You must know that this matter is one of haste. We have very little time to see this through.”

Bilbo nodded readily.

Dáin did not seem pleased by the eager notion, narrowing his eyes until Bilbo stilled under the disappointment in his gaze. The silence continued on, and, though Bilbo itched for even the smallest bit of information, he waited patiently, with tightly fisted-hands and his tongue clamped firmly between his teeth.

“It is time.”

Bilbo did need not ask any further. Those three simple, yet telling words were all Dáin need say.

Years had passed- long, hard and lonely, but they had led to this, to the height of Bilbo’s existence and worth; a test of his determination and loyalty to his people, the people who had died in vein, the peaceful creatures he’d only known in ink and word of mouth.

In the end, Bilbo was all that was left of his race. Young and defenseless, in the dying arms of his mother- a creature he could no longer call to memory, save for his own reflection.

More importantly, he owed this to his savior. To the only kin he’d ever known, Dáin.

“The company awaits you. Your journey will start under the cover of nightfall. The less who know of your journey, the better. Prepare quickly.”

Bilbo nodded again, his voice suddenly lost, unable to convey the extent of his willingness. He did not mention the pack tucked snugly beneath his bed, nor his favorite pair of short swords lopped through its straps.

He was prepared, had been for as long as he could remember.

Dáin stayed a few moments more, his grip constricting then loosening, then tightening again along the tops of Bilbo’s shoulders. Bilbo was too anxious to appreciate the sentiment, leaning forward on instinct alone when Dáin’s forehead came to rest against his own.

“Remember what I’ve taught you. Do not forget the importance of your goal,” Dáin reminded softly, always with a varying amount of coarseness in his voice.

“I will not forget,” Bilbo responded confidently. How could he?

“You will bring great honor to the memory of your people, Bilbo.”

Bilbo’s eyes slipped shut on their own accord, a rush of warmth spreading through his body at the rare use of his name, and, with it, came the realization of their long parting. They would see each other again, of that Bilbo was sure, but how long before then, he did not know.

“And if I fail?” he asked hesitantly, not truly fearing the risk, but curious of the answer.

“Failure is not an option.” Dáin pulled away, the affection of caretaker and teacher all but disappearing from his expression, replaced by the stern assurance of Lord of the Iron Hills.

.  
.  
.

As promised, the company awaited Bilbo just outside the main tunnel entrance, mounted and ready for the journey ahead. The sun had long since set and given way to a starlit darkness, obscured only by the thick, surrounding patches of trees. The group was small by Dáin’s standards; just a handful of his most trusted guards. Quiet and unapproachable as they were, Bilbo knew their loyalty spoke well enough in place of their silence.

Bilbo found the only riderless pony of the lot, saddled and snuffing at the dirt path away from the rest of the group. Bilbo smiled as he approached.

“Urkhas,” he whispered fondly. The dark stallion pony tossed his head in greeting, nickering softly as Bilbo rubbed along his neck.

Demon, the dwarves all called the pony. He’d been found as a colt, grazing near the rotting bodies of his herd, slain by wargs, no doubt. Traders had brought him through the Iron Hills, desperate to be rid of the poor beast who was far too wild to tame, with a vicious bite to boot.

As all hope seemed lost for the orphaned pony, the dwarves saw no use but to put a knife to his neck.

And that was how Bilbo had found him, moments from death and no less violent under its threat. He’d run out from his hiding place behind Dáin, shouting at the dwarves as they tried to hold the pony still.

Animals had a sixth sense, Dáin once told him. They could sense the intentions and the emotions of their masters and it was what made them loyal, or no. It was love at first sight, some would say. With that in mind, Bilbo had fearlessly latched himself onto the broken soul. Urkhas had been no less taken with the hobbit, gentled by his mercy and constant affection.

Bilbo let his pack slip from his shoulder, quickly securing it to the back of his saddle before arranging himself atop Urkhas with practiced ease. He nudged the stallion on to keep pace, keenly aware of the dwarf waiting to take up the rear of the company.

He had expected a mostly quiet journey, without overly friendly companions to be spoken of. So, Bilbo was surprised when one dwarf slowed his pony to walk beside the hobbit, pulling back his wool hood to reveal a shy, but familiar, smile.

“Kinod!” Bilbo allowed his excitement to carry him away for a moment. His lips curved, cheeks burning with genuine happiness. “I did not expect to see you.”

“I convinced Master Dáin to let me accompany you,” he responded, his smile growing. “Couldn’t let you make the journey alone with this unsociable lot.”

Bilbo laughed. “How long do you plan to stay in Erebor?” He asked.

Kinod looked away with a flush of pink across his cheeks. “As long as you need me, I suppose. Master Dáin asked that I help you settle in nicely. ‘It is no small thing’, he told me, getting married to a king, that is.”

Bilbo swallowed, following Kinod’s gaze to the dark, rocky path ahead.

“No, it is not,” he agreed, “but I’ll manage.”

“I have no doubt, Bilbo. No doubt.” Kinod smiled again. This time it was one of comfort and sureness, and Bilbo could swear there was a bit of Dáin’s conviction in Kinod’s agreement.

The first leg of the journey was, for the most part, uneventful.

Though, the weather changed often and drastically. The sharp drops in temperature was like nothing Bilbo had ever experienced, and something his body refused to adapt to. More than once, Kinod offered him an extra hide, but each time, Bilbo refused. He knew darrows to be exceptionally warm and quite immune to unexpected temperature fluctuations.

Still, the thought of taking what little Kinod has brought for himself, would offer no small amount of guilt on Bilbo’s conscious, so he respectfully refused, ignoring the looks of concern from Kinod and the inquisitive glances from the remaining guard.  
The shaking grew less violent as the nights wore on.

Though Bilbo had studied the maps of Middle Earth countless times, traced the tip of his finger along the short expanse of parchment between Erebor and the Iron Hills, it had left much to his imagination. To see the land laid out before him, was breathtaking in all its infinite glory. So much life laid just outside the high peak of hills that surrounded their small villages and vast underground territory- life that Bilbo had long waited to see for himself.

The extent of Bilbo’s youthful explorations had been limited to the flat lands at the base of the Iron Hills themselves- a natural wall of protection that towered over Bilbo’s small height and pulled at the heart of his curiosity, his yearning for freedom. Dáin had been nothing, if not exceptionally careful, when the young hobbit’s well-being was concerned. As such, Bilbo very rarely pushed the boundaries his master set for him, finding that an angered, unheeded dwarf was more frightening than he was inclined to evoke.

The memory of Dáin’s wrath when Kinob and a group of his guard had found Bilbo, sleeping beside the thick trunk of an old tree, well outside the borders he was allowed, had all but shattered any adventurous thoughts Bilbo may have harbored. Though, now, in the presence of such unrestrained wild and an extraordinary change in his surroundings, Bilbo found that his appetite for adventure was returning with a vengeance.

The journey was made longer by their refusal to cross any known Eleven territories or outposts. Bilbo was slightly disappointed that he wouldn’t get the chance to meet any Elves, though he’d never admit it in the presence of the company. They all thought him too curious about other races as it was.

As it would turn out, their stubbornness was something of a blessing in disguise. It prolonged their quest and broadened Bilbo’s explorations. From time to time, they had little choice but to travel through smaller human settlements to send word to Erebor and the Iron Hills of their progress. Communication with Ravens was a great deal faster when the company’s whereabouts were easy for them to locate. These were the days Bilbo looked forward to most.

The first time they approached a village, Kinod spoke briefly with other members of the company before returning to Bilbo’s side, dragging the hobbit’s hood up over his head with an apologetic pat to his cheek. Kinod then reached into one of his packs, pulling out a red, knitted scarf that he offered to Bilbo.

“Sorry, Bilbo, but it’s for the best. You would draw far too much attention,” Kinod told him.

Bilbo said nothing, only nodded in understanding as he tucked the scarf around the lower half of his face, securing it at the base of his neck. He supposed it would be awfully hard to explain the presence of a hobbit in the company of dwarves, and Bilbo was not entirely sure any of Middle Earth knew of his existence, let alone the significance of their journey.

The disguise, of sorts, did little to abate Bilbo's curiosity.

After spending so much of his time confined within the borders of the Iron Hills, surrounded by dwarves, riding through the tiny towns was quite an experience for Bilbo. Men, especially, he found to be quite fascinating. They wore their age and ailment so plainly about their persons, and their emotions so openly on their faces. They seemed wary of the company’s presence, though not in the same way dwarves regarded outsiders. Rather, there was a sense of fearful curiosity, an irate interest that drew them near.

On one particular night, the company had made camp not far from a human settlement where they’d spent the day waiting for word of safe passage from the ravens of Erebor. Bilbo had laid his bedroll close to the edge of camp, away from his companions. Kinod had called after him, watching Bilbo from his place by the fire. Bilbo often stuck as close to Kinod as he could to keep warm through the biting, evening winds.

But, on this night, Bilbo’s eager inquisitiveness overwhelmed any sense of self-preservation- the sounds that traveled from the village were all too enticing. He’d tucked his knees up to his chest, huddled deep inside his bedding, and titled his head to let the far-off sounds of bright music and cheerful shouts dance around in his head.

Bilbo had never seen, nor heard, the dwarves of the Iron Hills so happy, not like this. Of course, as with any dwarf, they were happiest within the throws of their craft. The sprightly sort of celebrations that men seemed so inclined to, they were something else entirely.

Bilbo wondered if the the dwarves of Erebor were familiar with such lighthearted festivities. Maybe, they were much different than their kin in the east. Bilbo knew he shouldn’t feel so thrilled at the possibility. It meant nothing to Dáin's cause, and so it should mean nothing to him, either.

With a sigh, Bilbo turned over, tugging his blanket up to his chin to keep out the cold. Stubbornly, he remained on the outskirts of camp, ears twitching at steady beat of music that echoed in from across the plains. If Dáin could see into his mind now...

Bilbo shuddered, pulling the blanket over his head in a childish attempt to escape his on terrifying thoughts. What Bilbo’s imagination conjured on its own was of no importance to his master. They were merely harmless speculations- decades worth of a deep desire to know anything and everything there was to know about Middle Earth.

Truly, Dáin was partially to blame, was he not?

Bilbo nodded to himself. Certainly, Dáin’s over protective nature played a part in Bilbo’s interest with the unfamiliar world around him.

With his thoughts a bit lighter, and the night a bit colder, Bilbo shivered off into a light sleep, the fire dancing brightly behind his eyelids.

The rest of the journey proved as uneventful as its beginning. The company had no more contact with any human villages, much to Bilbo’ dismay. And he’d scarcely even seen a wild animal to speak for. The forest had grown sparse, broken by large expanses of open land, freckled with rocks and plants of varying shapes and sizes.

The company was a great deal more restless during this time, Bilbo included. Only Kinod seemed immune to the threat they faced being out in the open, without the cover of trees to hide them. He spoke fondly of his memories in Erebor as a dwarfling, hardly stopping long enough to catch his breath. Bilbo listened dutifully, but his attention was often focused elsewhere.

They drew near to something, of that Bilbo was certain- something with great power. He’d thought, at first, it was the beseeching call of the Lonely Mountain itself, urging their company on. But, the power of mountains was a strength that ran deep into the earth, solid and steady, forever unmoving.

This power felt much different.

It was not rooted into the ground, or in any living thing, really. It slid quietly across the land, tangled with soft breezes, tickling the air around the company- never solid and always moving.

Bilbo found it quite charming in its elusiveness, blanketing them as if it were a familiar friend in one moment, and gone in the next, stronger with every reappearance. He smiled as the warmth surrounded him again.

“Late, as usual,” Kinod muttered, sounding vexed.

Bilbo followed Kinod’s gaze.

He would hardly have noticed the stranger’s arrival. Despite his stature, he had a calm and quiet aura about him. Obscured by long, dull-colored robes, Bilbo couldn’t make out any of the details of his face. He looked quite like a man, if not significantly taller, and larger in ways beyond size alone. This being, Bilbo realized as he rode closer to the company, had been the silent, unseen power slipping through their company for the better part of the day.

“Kinod?” Bilbo whispered in question.

“Oh, right,” Kinod said, turning in his saddle to set his attention back to Bilbo. “That, Bilbo, is Tharkûn. He’s a wizard. Goes by Gandalf the Grey. ”

Bilbo’s eyes widened in disbelief. He pulled his gaze away from the stranger, searching Kinod’s face for any sign of jest or deceit, he found neither, only irritation, assumably, at the wizard’s apparent late arrival. Bilbo leaned closer to Kinod, slowly, so as not to draw attention to himself.

“What’s he doing out here?” Bilbo asked.

“He’s counted as one of those trusted by the King Thorin. An advisor, of sorts, between the dwarves of Erebor and elves of Mirkwood,” Kinod spat, making no effort to hide his distaste. “Lazy folk, really. Always showing up late to where they aren’t wanted in the first place.”

Bilbo swallowed, sliding deeper into his saddle.

“The elves or wizards?” He asked.

Kinod looked utterly insulted. “Well, wizards of course. Elves would dare not show up anywhere uninvited. I’d have nothing so nice to say about a damned elf, anyway. You’d do well to remember that, Bilbo, the lot of them are evil, each and every one of ‘em.”

“Now, now, we shouldn’t go spreading lies to fellows who don’t know the difference.” Kinod jumped, looking much like a dwarfling being properly chastised, and by a wizard, no less. “Tell me then, Kinod, son of Hiljad, when was the last time you kept company with an elf?”

Kinod recovered quickly, sitting straight as he acknowledged Gandalf’s presence.

“Never, Mister Gandalf,” Kinod huffed, turning his nose up to hide the angry blush dusting across his cheeks. “And, I don’t ever plan on it, either.”

Kinod gave his pony a rough nudge, trotting further up the line of their company. Gandalf’s horse walked up beside Bilbo, slipping into Kinod’s abandoned spot with ease.

“Good evening, friends,” Gandalf greeted. The company remained quiet, save for a few begrudged grunts.

Gandalf looked torn between irritation and amusement at their terrible manners.

Bilbo continued to peak around the edge of his hood, head tipped to look at the well-worn hat atop Gandalf’s head. It looked tired, slumped back like a wilted flower of old wool. His gaze traveled down, taking in the lines and spots of Gandalf’s face. Somehow, the wizard wasn’t quite what Bilbo had expected, nothing like what he’d read in his books.

As if sensing Bilbo’s gaze, Gandalf turned to meet it. The moment their eyes locked, Bilbo could see it, then; an infinite knowledge brought by centuries of patience and experience, power that simmered like the embers of a dying fire- always in danger of igniting a flame, but often overlooked. But, there was also gentleness, as soft and honest as the smile on the wizard's face.

Bilbo ducked his head back down, embarrassed at being caught, and for continuing to stare so long after. He hoped Gandalf was not as quick to anger as the dwarves.

“I admit, it has been a long time since I last came across a hobbit.” Gandalf revealed. He continued to look Bilbo over, seeming more intrigued than he was wary. “But, you, Bilbo Baggins, are not what I expected.”

“Baggins?” Bilbo asked, staring openly at Gandalf now. “What’s a Baggins?”

“Why, it’s you, my dear boy. Although you don’t know the name, nor that you belong to it, I suppose.”

“I don’t understand,” Bilbo told him, utterly confused as to what Gandalf was going on about.

“I knew your mother, Belladonna Took, and your father, Bungo Baggins,” Gandalf said quietly, as if he wished to keep their conversation quiet from the rest of the company. “Great hobbits. Even better friends.”

Bilbo did not know what to say. He’d never met anyone who’d come across a hobbit, other than himself. What’s more, he’d never heard his parents’ names, either. He hadn’t given much thought to it, really. From what he knew, hobbits were a private folk that had rarely done business with anyone outside of Bree, with few exceptions. He had not counted on meeting acquaintances of his late parents, nor anyone of his kind, for that matter.

“Belladonna,” Bilbo tested the name out loud, then mouthed it a few times more, enjoying how it felt as it rolled over his tongue. It was a beautiful name.

He’d remembered her, once, so long ago. No more than a faunt, and Bilbo could hear the sound of a sweet, soft lullaby echoing through the dark halls of a warm home. Late at night, in his stone room beneath the Iron Hills, when the world grew cold, and his existence a burden, he’d sang along with the ghost of her voice.

“I don’t remember her,” and Bilbo didn’t. Not anymore.

“I am sorry, my dear boy” Gandalf spoke so sincerely, Bilbo didn’t doubt how truthful the sentiment was. “It is no small thing, to take such innocent life. A curse hangs upon those who commit such evil.”  
“Indeed,” Bilbo agreed.

The company covered more ground with Gandalf in their company. Though Bilbo wasn’t sure if it was a sign of Gandalf’s unnatural influence on their speed, or the dwarrows’ desire to be rid of him.

The last day of their journey was nearing its end as they came to the top of a tall hill where the land flattened and then disappeared into the mouth of a massive cliff. The company spread out at the edge, looking over the vast space within. At its center, stood a bright city with tall towers and colorful flags that waved proudly in the breeze.

Beyond that, carved into the very base of the Lonely Mountain’s magnificence, flanked by two imposing statues, lined with tall pine trees, and filled with an entire kingdom, were the Great Gates of Erebor.

**Author's Note:**

> These are all fairly loose translations. They might not translate exactly but I did my best with my research.
> 
> Kurdu-dûm: Heart excavator  
> Nad ithrun: short swords (What Dain calls Bilbo's daggers because they do not yet have names, i.e. he's never been in a real battle or done great deeds).  
> Ainâla: way, or path.  
> Urkhas: demon.  
> 


End file.
